


A pain in the ass

by PoemAboutCitylights



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Comfort, Disappointment, Fluff, Lövik the dog - Freeform, M/M, Roland Garros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14863835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemAboutCitylights/pseuds/PoemAboutCitylights
Summary: "Oh, so you've lost a Grand Slam quarter final? Cry some more."Or the one where Sascha drops out of the French Open und Novak helps to pick up the pieces.





	A pain in the ass

**Author's Note:**

> So I hope y'all know that pic of Sascha where he's lying in bed with his dog?  
> This is inspired by it.

Sascha was well aware that he was being melodramatic but he couldn’t care less.  
And if he wasn’t allowed to be melodramatic right now, then when?  
He had lost to Domi in a French Open quartier final. His first, which didn’t make it any better, though.  
Maybe, probably, things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t had to play three five set matches before. He knew he could beat his Austrian friend. His play was good enough, he had the mental strength by now, but his body had betrayed him in the worst way possible.  
What was he, 40?  
  
So _no_ , he wasn’t keen on leaving his bed. Not because his dad was knocking on his door, not because of his mum and most certainly not because of Mischa.  
Right now, he wanted to bath in his misery, with his blanket draped over his head to hide away from the Parisian sun that was falling through the large windows of his hotel room.  
It was getting a little too hot, though, because he was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, so he stuck out his leg and let out a deep sigh, while he ran his fingers through the soft curls of his dog’s fur.  
“Lövik…” he breathed, throwing his other hand over his forehead in what had to look like a dramatic gesture, “I really wish my life was as easy as yours. Eat, Sleep, Repeat.”  
He hid his face away in his pillow and tried not to think of that moment of his match against Dominic when he had felt his muscle itching for the first time.  
He had known that he wouldn’t stand a chance right then.  
But at no point he had actually considered to give up the match and walk away without finishing things properly.  
He simply didn’t like that kind of stuff and if he had to drop out of a Grand Slam quarter final, he had wanted to drop out with his head held high.  
  
Right now, though, he didn’t feel like keeping his chin up.  
He felt like weeping and moaning and complaining to someone about how fucking unfair his life was, but his family had refused to listen so Lövik was the only one left and for hours, he had been caressing the dog’s fur now, pouring his heart out to his small friend.  
“If only I had played a little better the previous matches… I was BETTER every single time!”  
He kicked the sheets away that had wrapped themselves tightly around his sweaty legs.  
“What is it with me and Grand Slams?”  
“Yeah, what’s that with you and Grand Slams?” someone suddenly asked and Sascha literally jumped, nearly falling off the edge of his bed while he definitely _didn’t_ yelp, for he wasn’t a goddamn 12-years-old girl, thank you very much.  
Novak was standing in the doorway, the key card Sascha had given to him in his hand, apparently having opened the electronic hotel door without making a sound.  
When the first shock wore off, Sascha pulled the blanket back over his head and turned his face away from the older tennis player.  
“Go away,” he muttered and Lövik yelped when the German accidently scraped his skin too roughly.  
But, naturally, the Serb didn’t do him the favour and instead he let out an amused chuckle. Sascha didn’t need to see him to know that he had crossed his arms in front of his chest, raising his eyebrow.  
“So that’s all you’ve done since yesterday? Laid in bed and cried?”  
“None of your fucking business,” Sascha moaned defensively and placed his pillow on top of his head, breathing in the scent of his sheets.  
“That might be true…” Novak said and the way he didn’t finish his talk but trailed off made Alexander clench his teeth.  
If Nole wasn’t willing to listen to his misery, then what was he doing here?  
“If you’re only here to tease me, then what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, eventually turning around with a strained groan to face the Serb.  
Novak was still standing in the middle of the room, amusement sparkling in his attentive eyes, arms crossed in front of his chest like Sascha had guessed he would do.  
“I’m waiting!” the German called impatiently and Nole, the bastard, started grinning, coming closer with small steps until he sat down at the edge of the younger man’s bed.  
“So you’ve lost a Grand Slam quarterfinal. Cry some more!”  
There was a challenging look in his eyes and Sascha felt like punching it off his face, if he had actually had some energy left in his body. Maybe not drinking anything all day hadn’t been his cleverest move.  
When he squinted his eyes at the Serb, Novak raised his hands in defence. Then, he let out a sigh and edged closer, until he was lying next to Sascha, his hands tugged under his cheek.  
The German held his gaze with curiosity, frowning.  
“Tell me about it,” Novak eventually said, his tone soft and careful, testing the waters.  
Sascha swallowed.  
“Tell me about it, Sascha…” the older one repeated when the German didn’t react.  
The younger one’s gaze dropped at the worry in Novak’s eyes.  
“I’m feeling like a piece of shit.”  
“That’s relatable,” was all the Serb said.  
Sascha’s gaze found the older player’s again.  
“This feels like I let a once in a lifetime opportunity slip. Just like that…”  
The German watched how Novak’s lips curled up in a small smile, while he reached out and brushed the back of his hand over Sascha’s cheekbones.  
“That’s not true, draga.”  
Alexander’s insides warmed up at the nickname and a dark blush spread on his cheeks.  
“What if it is? The Grand Slams and me… it’s a curse. What if that was my last quarter final?”  
He felt panic rising in his throat while he was speaking the words, only then realizing how deep that fear was running, despite his best efforts to always brush it off and not fall in line with the media.  
“You’re incredibly young, Sascha. Your time will come.”  
Sascha looked up at the other man.  
“How could you know?” the German asked, a quiet sob dropping from his lips while he turned away from the other player, not wanting him to see the few tears that had welled up in his eyes.  
“Sascha…” Nole said, his voice barely more than a whisper while he was coming a little closer, so close until their chests were touching.  
The Serb’s fingers were brushing over his hot cheeks once again, making him shiver, while Sascha instinctively leaned into the touch.  
“I just know. Everyone knows.”  
Alexander trembled some more when the older one’s lips ghosted along his jaw, placing a gentle kiss against it.  
“And you know, too. You’re working so hard. Your last weeks have been amazing.”  
“And still, it wasn’t enough. Another time, it just wasn’t enough,” Sascha whispered, their gazes interlocked.  
“I wasn’t enough.”  
Novak exhaled audibly, closing his eyes for a second before he placed his hands on each side of the young German’s face, forcing him to look at him.  
Sascha felt himself blushing once again under the Serb’s intense gaze.  
“Can I kiss you?” he heard himself ask and then Novak smiled at him, chuckling softly.  
“You know that you don’t have to ask.”  
“I like the way you smile when I do.”  
And it was the truth, because Sascha had grown addicted to that smile, especially if it was directed at him.  
And then Novak was kissing _him_ , his hands still on each side of Sascha’s head.  
It was a soft brush of lips at first, enough to send a tingling sensation through the German’s body, until Novak captured his lips with his.  
The kiss lasted for several seconds, until Nole leaned his forehead against his, their noses sliding against each other.  
The Serb’s breath was warm on Sascha’s skin and the German closed his eyes for a moment, sighing when Nole’s fingers found their way into the long blond strands of his hair.  
“Listen, draga,” Novak whispered and his voice was completely free of the usual amusement.  
“You are _enough_ , Sascha. You are enough and you’re so much more than that. And you’re already a pain in the ass for everyone on the tour, believe me.”  
The German’s chest tightened at the comforting words and not knowing how to react, he did the usual. Joking it off.  
“Well, normally you’re _my personal_ pain in the ass, so I guess it’s even.”  
“Oh shut up, Zverev.”  
Sascha grinned.  
“Make me.”  
And Novak did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts on this?  
> I hoped you liked it! <3


End file.
